


Hives for the Holidays

by interflora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Holidays, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:52:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interflora/pseuds/interflora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the hurt!Sam comment fic meme on LJ. Prompt: Sam is allergic to Christmas trees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hives for the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for -very- slight weecest.

“Jesus, Sam, you gonna help us out or what?” Dean grunts, but Sam can hear that little note of pride.

He’s the one who convinced John to let them get it in the first place— Partly as a celebration of the fact that they just topped a seriously nasty wendigo, and partly because Sam stared longingly at each and every Christmas tree lot they passed along the highway.

It’s five days before Christmas and Sam still isn’t ready to believe they’re actually going to have a _tree_.

Almost like a normal family, apart from how they have nothing to decorate it with except shredded obits and mangled paper snowflakes Dean made with a nine inch hunting knife. He’d whittled them out while watching reruns of _The Wonder Years_ , and as such they looked a bit more like the work of a third grader than a grown man.

They’ll probably have to make a tree topper out of recycled beer cans—but it’s a Winchester Christmas, after all, and if John’s planning on being conscious on Christmas morning it’s as much as he can ask for.

John and Dean got back three minutes ago and Sam had been so dumbstruck by the full-sized Douglas fir, he hadn’t made a move to help them get it off the roof of the Impala.

“Watch it, Dean! You’re gonna scratch the paint,” John growls.

The two of them bitch at each other until they manage to lift it off the roof and Sam hurries forward to lift the trunk. Some bark comes loose in his hands, scratching up his palms. He doesn’t mind.

The first thing that hits him is the smell of it—forest, but not like hunting in the dark. He’s spent countless nights huddled against the rain, kneeling in pine needles in the woods, waiting for Dean to make the killing shot, or John to tell them where to go next.

It’s just fresh, clean, pine.

It’ll cover up the stale smoke and mildew reek of the motel room. They can decorate it, and he can put the winter gloves he got Dean under it, and—

“Sam, you’re dropping it,” Dean barks.

“Sorry,” Sam gets his shoulder underneath the thick trunk and together they manage to maneuver it through the motel room door. It takes a lot of twisting and re-doing and swearing, but eventually they have it situated at the foot of John’s bed. It’s a little too tall so the top bends under the ceiling, but Sam could care less.

It’s damn near perfect.

That is, until he starts sneezing.  
  


At first it’s just a few; he’s one of those people that always sneeze, like, six times in a row anyways.

He doesn’t think much of it. Motels are dusty and this one isn’t exactly a shining example of a roadside stop.

He’s watching _Vacation_ with Dean, squashed together on the tiny, threadbare couch, Dean ignoring the glares Sam’s shooting him for laughing while his mouth’s full of peanuts.

Sam can’t hold back anymore. He opens his mouth to make some snarky remark about Dean’s inability to act like a civil human being when he sneezes so hard his jaw snaps together.

Dean loses it at that, spraying bits of chewed peanut everywhere. Sam wipes his running eyes with the back of his hand and would bitch at Dean for being an absolute pig.

If his throat hadn’t totally closed.

Sam chokes and splutters, grabbing his throat with one hand and trying desperately to catch his breath. His heart hammers in his chest and it’s the oddest thing, drowning without the water. He heaves and his eyes are streaming and Dean’s suddenly not laughing anymore, holding him by the elbow with wide eyes and yelling, “Dad! DAD!” over and over.

Sam’s vision narrows to Dean’s panicked face. _He’s really losing it,_ he thinks fuzzily.

Suddenly he’s swept off the couch, cradled like a child in Dean’s arms and being rushed outside.

He makes out the word “hospital” and sucks in the tiniest breath, just enough to keep his head from swimming.

Sam’s eyes are burning and too wet all at once.

He’s being lowered into the backseat of the Impala and John and Dean are yelling at each other. If he had enough air he’d tell them both to shut the hell up, but his head is throbbing and his arms are starting to burn. They’re prickling and itchy and his skin feels too tight, like someone’s been dragging steel wool over them.

His vision is shrinking too, and the skin around his eyes feels stretched taught. He can barely focus on Dean’s hand locked around his wrist or the way he’s leaning into Sam in the backseat while John runs two red lights in a row.

He keeps talking, though, and that helps him. Sam manages to pick out something about “allergic.”

By the time John gets them on the highway, the pressure in Sam’s head has eased slightly and he doesn’t have to struggle to breathe quite so much.

“D-Dean?”

“Sammy,” Dean’s hand squeezes his wrist again.

“’M okay. Don’t need hospital,” he wheezes.

John glances in the rearview mirror and it’s the constant debate of money versus need all over again. Sam can see the calculation in his father’s dark eyes. He’s been worse off than this after hunts, and that’s sometimes without so much as Ibuprofen.

“You sure, Sam?”

“Dad, he should go,” Dean cuts in.

“I’m okay,” Sam rasps again. “Seriously.”

Dean glances down at him, his expression almost hurt. _You need help. Want to help you._

_No._

Sam manages to sit up straight without Dean and puts his seatbelt on. His throat is still really painful and he can’t see much, but at least he can breathe without gasping through what feels like a Capri-Sun straw.

Dean bitches at him some, but in the end, Sam wins.

John turns the car around and the drive back to the motel is quiet. Dean glares out the window with his arms crossed and John doesn’t say anything, either. He’s like that after one of his kids get hurt. He doesn’t know what to say. But Sam can feel his silent gratitude.

Things could’ve been a lot worse.

 

 

When they get back to the room, Dean makes Sam wait outside until they figure out what trigged his attack.

It doesn’t take long to figure out that the only thing in their room that’s new is the Christmas tree.

“We’ll just take the damn thing out back,” Dean says, starting forward and already flicking his lighter open.

“No!” Sam cries.

John rolls his eyes. “Sammy, you’re gonna swell up like a balloon.”

“I don’t care. It’s fine. I’ll get medicine.”

Sam turns puffy eyes on Dean. He doesn’t have to say a word out loud. _Please?_

Dean sighs and glances at John.

With both of his sons’ eyes on him, John caves and throws his hands up.

“If you end up worse, we’re chucking the thing. Can’t afford any doctor bills this year, Sammy.”

“Okay,” Sam nods.

 

 

He pays for his stubbornness every morning when he wakes up with his eyes swollen shut and his throat so raw it feels like he’s swallowed a cup of thumbtacks. As long as he doesn’t touch the tree, his sore throat is manageable. He doesn’t talk much, but it’s worth it to wake up to that smell.

On the morning when he wakes up, he even has some red bumps on his arms. He turns over in bed, miserable, and finds Dean already awake and watching him with sleepy green eyes.

_You okay, Sammy?_ Dean’s eyes flick down to his arms and back to meet his gaze.

Sam swallows, trying to hide how painful it is. But Dean isn’t fooled. He slips out of bed and makes his way to the kitchenette, naked save for his boxers. Dean’s lean and fit and everything Sam isn’t.

For a second, Sam is stupidly, blindingly jealous of his older brother.

Dean’s always been the stronger of the two of them. Not weak and sick and skinny and sneezy like Sam.

Dean comes back to bed with a steaming mug of chamomile tea. He gestures for Sam to sit up and he does, grudgingly, while Dean arranges his pillows so Sam’s propped up against the headboard.

Sam sips his tea and Dean slips back into bed beside him.

John’s still snoring away, dead to the world.

It’s just him and Dean and the tea feels good on his throat, and now that he’s able to breathe again he can actually smell the tree. He inhales and thinks, this is what Christmas smells like. And he gets it for the first time—this is what people mean when they talk about having Christmas trees in their living rooms.

Dean’s shoulder knocks against his.

 

 

 

Later that day, Dean drives Sam to the local drugstore, a CVS off I-95. Of course, that’s after he makes Sam go back to his room and put on about three extra layers before he’s satisfied.

“’M not sick, Dean. It’s just allergies.”

“I don’t care, if you get sick on top of it you better believe I’m not sleeping next to you.”

Sam sniffles and blows his nose the whole way to the store, though once they’re inside he can feel his lungs loosening and his eyes feel almost back to normal.

It’s such a relief he almost considers giving Dean permission to burn the tree after all.

It’s early enough that the store is empty. He and Dean peruse the countless rows of medicine and Sam acts like he doesn’t notice how close Dean is standing to him. Acts like he doesn’t notice when Dean’s hand slides into his back pocket.

“What’re the ingredients in Benadryl?”

“Should relieve some of your symptoms, I think,” Dean tells him, scanning the box.

Sam leans back into him for a moment.

“I don’t have any cash,” he mutters, embarrassed.

“Gotcha covered, kid. Go wait in the car.”

Sam thinks about protesting, but that’s before Dean’s hand shifts and some of Dean’s warmth seems to seep into him and settles in his gut.

When Dean comes back to the Impala, he brings half the shelf of allergy symptom relief with him and there’s no receipt.

On Christmas morning, Sam sneezes hard. He can feel it scraping up his throat, scorching and leaving a trail of inflammation. He has to gasp to breathe and it’s like his windpipe is constricting with each one, but he doesn’t care.

He puts Dean’s carefully newspaper-wrapped gift under the tree, careful not to make any noise.

He feels better today, thanks to Dean’s reminders to medicate himself every few hours.

It takes a while before Dean starts stirring, and “Sammy, get the hell out from under that thing,” is the first thing he mumbles, his hair sticking up in all directions.

“Medicine helped. Merry Christmas,” he grins.

His eyes are puffy and his nose and running and he’s probably never looked worse.

Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

He pushes the covers back and goes to the kitchen, makes Sam tea the same way he has every day since they got the tree.

Sam joins him at the table and he sneezes and coughs and sniffs and Dean just looks at him. Sam colors a little under his stare, but accepts it. There’s something in that look, he thinks, something just between them and their small room and their shabbily decorated tree.

Somehow Dean managed to put a small pile of tiny packages at the base of it, probably while Sam was in the bathroom.

John’s still snoring and can’t know that Dean’s poured some of his whiskey into his morning cup of steaming coffee. John wakes up irritable anyways, but his expression softens slightly at the sight of his two sons at the foot of the tree: Sam and his runny nose, Dean in sweatpants and teasing Sam for his hives.

Dean’s ecstatic about the back issue _Man of Steel_ Superman comics Sam managed to get his hands on, and Sam’s both annoyed and relieved when Dean produces gift-wrapped bottles of prescription drugs for Sam’s present.

Later, the heater stops working and Sam can think of a pretty fail-safe way to keep them warm.

Dean and John strap the tree back to the hood of the Impala while Sam watches from a safe distance. John chooses to stay at home, since he’s got a lead on a spirit hunt in North Dakota they’ll probably be pursuing as early as that night.

Sam and Dean drive the tree to the empty basketball court behind an abandoned strip mall around the corner from the motel.

Sam pours the gasoline and Dean supplies the lighter and the smoke irritates the hell out of Sam’s throat. But it’s hot, and it’s sort of pretty and Dean seems to be enjoying himself and his hand is back in Sam’s pocket.

It’s not perfect. Sam feels like shit and Dean’s too young to have had that whiskey, and John doesn't know what’s going on right in front of his eyes between his two sons.

But it’s a Winchester Christmas, and things could be a hell of a lot worse.


End file.
